It's funny how easy it is to suddenly feel unsafe on the internet. We know that anyone can read our words when we blog, but, knowing that a particular person can read it. IS reading it, suddenly makes the place where you express so easily, a place of hesitance. This is the main reason I've posted so much less than in the beginning of my reflections. However, I hope that will change now. I'm feeling a better understanding about where I want to go with this blog.
Right now, my family is complete. It's been a journey that isn't complete. Like anyone else, I am guilty of not knowing everything about relationships, but have learned a fair amount in my travels. I know now that it is imperative to never assume you know what someone else is thinking, unless you ASK.
I'd like to share my family's latest project. We have opened a You tube account called "TY talks" and our pilot video is entitled, "The Relationship Snake".
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_q74RjnGBDw
This video is the first of thousands of worksheets created by my husband, Ty Clement, in the privacy of his therapy office walls with hundreds of enthusiastic clients. Each video is linked to our next book, which is a very exciting venture. We hope to transform the world, one worksheet, and one video at a time. Folk wisdom from a modern perspective of truth and empowerment. This is the man who held my hand through the deepest mires of grief and helped me to live to tell the tale. I owe him my life....and he feels the same way about me.
Thank you for watching the video. Please pass it on. Together, peace will be ours.
Love,
Sara
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
On change. On growth.
Four years ago, I reached out into a void in an effort to have my pain dispersed out amongst the endless reams of internet information available to us all. I never expected anyone to read, I just knew I had to write.
So, I wrote.
And wrote.
And cried.
And wrote.
And fumed.
And wrote.
And pondered.
And wrote.
And questioned.
And wrote.
And wrote some more. And some more.
Years have gone by. Four of them. Like lightening.
As I type, at this very moment, a wee lass with sparkling blue eyes is nursing at my breast while hopping on one foot. A toddler. Only yesterday, it seems, she was nearing the day of her birth. Being very coy about her entrance. She had her own plans about her birth day and it had nothing to do with charts and assumptions about estimated due dates. She took her time. It is her way.
As the mother of many, I am not surprised at the lack of time I have for myself...for my writing...for my other interests. As the woman who has known the sting of losing children, I am not taken aback by the massive desire I have to embrace my daughters every moment of existance.
I was always attentive to my older children. My son's have known no lack in my love, though they have experienced what it looks like to have a grieving mother. In that, they have learned empathy. Compassion. A massive respect for the amount of love a parent has for a child. Even, and perhaps especially for, a dead child.
However...attentive as I was, it was nothing like the magnitude of my attention for my rainbow daughter. My Ali Ve.
Because....now I know. I know I can lose my children.
That is a truth you can't unlearn.
So, four years later, I am a new being. A mother to six living children. And dead twins. I love them all and am influenced by all on a daily basis.
To celebrate life, and the metamorphosis that occurs when one is LIVING this life--in all it's twists and turns and ups and downs, I am venturing out into cyberspace again. My sweet toddler is easily satisfied playing at my knee. She hops back and forth from blocks to my breast, and from my breast to her dolls. She has no interest in weaning, and I have no interest in pushing her away. Change is happening in it's own way, in it's own pattern.
I'm writing today to talk about change. Change in the reality that is loss. This post is for all you momma's who doubt you will ever know the ability to smile again. I was in your shoes four years ago. I was in agony. I remember hearing babies crying in the night....only to wake and find that I was baby-less. Only in my dreams could I see their faces. I walked with my eyes averted to the ground, in the hope that no one would make eye contact with me, least I crumble into a mess of despair. Nervous breakdowns were my new normal, and I assumed I would be crippled by them for the rest of my life. (and for all of you who fear the same...I promise you, with all of my heart, you WILL smile again. You WILL heal. And....you will never be the person you were before losing your child. And even more....you won't want to be the person you were before, because the person you were before never knew what it was like to love that deeply. To lose that much and to live to tell the tale--You will be bigger than you ever dreamed you wanted to be. And you will have your loss to thank. I'm sorry....it's just true. It's true that loss can and will be be the catalyst for everything beautiful in your future. Everything.)
When Ali Ve was born, a new kind of terror was born along with her. It took the past two years of vivid adoration to understand that she wasn't going to evaporate in some mysterious way. She wasn't going to drown in a glass of water. She wasn't going to be eaten by a rouge squirrel. She wasn't going to disappear and only visit me in my dreams. She was actually....here.
Ali Ve.
Alive.
I woke up this morning, thinking about how we grow. How we change.
I am not the mother I was 24 years ago when my first son was born. Time and circumstance have altered all that I was at that tender young age. I am a different mother. An older mother. I am no better, though I am more experienced, and am certainly not worse, even if I am more aware of the realities life can deal out. I have changed. And grown.
This blog is changing and growing along with me. I am not sure where it is going...yet. But, today, I knew that it was growing. That there were new things to talk about.
Everything that I AM is colored by my loss. Everything I know has been shaped by my journey.
I am excited to share my reflections with you.
Let's grow together.
So, I wrote.
And wrote.
And cried.
And wrote.
And fumed.
And wrote.
And pondered.
And wrote.
And questioned.
And wrote.
And wrote some more. And some more.
Years have gone by. Four of them. Like lightening.
As I type, at this very moment, a wee lass with sparkling blue eyes is nursing at my breast while hopping on one foot. A toddler. Only yesterday, it seems, she was nearing the day of her birth. Being very coy about her entrance. She had her own plans about her birth day and it had nothing to do with charts and assumptions about estimated due dates. She took her time. It is her way.
As the mother of many, I am not surprised at the lack of time I have for myself...for my writing...for my other interests. As the woman who has known the sting of losing children, I am not taken aback by the massive desire I have to embrace my daughters every moment of existance.
I was always attentive to my older children. My son's have known no lack in my love, though they have experienced what it looks like to have a grieving mother. In that, they have learned empathy. Compassion. A massive respect for the amount of love a parent has for a child. Even, and perhaps especially for, a dead child.
However...attentive as I was, it was nothing like the magnitude of my attention for my rainbow daughter. My Ali Ve.
Because....now I know. I know I can lose my children.
That is a truth you can't unlearn.
So, four years later, I am a new being. A mother to six living children. And dead twins. I love them all and am influenced by all on a daily basis.
To celebrate life, and the metamorphosis that occurs when one is LIVING this life--in all it's twists and turns and ups and downs, I am venturing out into cyberspace again. My sweet toddler is easily satisfied playing at my knee. She hops back and forth from blocks to my breast, and from my breast to her dolls. She has no interest in weaning, and I have no interest in pushing her away. Change is happening in it's own way, in it's own pattern.
I'm writing today to talk about change. Change in the reality that is loss. This post is for all you momma's who doubt you will ever know the ability to smile again. I was in your shoes four years ago. I was in agony. I remember hearing babies crying in the night....only to wake and find that I was baby-less. Only in my dreams could I see their faces. I walked with my eyes averted to the ground, in the hope that no one would make eye contact with me, least I crumble into a mess of despair. Nervous breakdowns were my new normal, and I assumed I would be crippled by them for the rest of my life. (and for all of you who fear the same...I promise you, with all of my heart, you WILL smile again. You WILL heal. And....you will never be the person you were before losing your child. And even more....you won't want to be the person you were before, because the person you were before never knew what it was like to love that deeply. To lose that much and to live to tell the tale--You will be bigger than you ever dreamed you wanted to be. And you will have your loss to thank. I'm sorry....it's just true. It's true that loss can and will be be the catalyst for everything beautiful in your future. Everything.)
When Ali Ve was born, a new kind of terror was born along with her. It took the past two years of vivid adoration to understand that she wasn't going to evaporate in some mysterious way. She wasn't going to drown in a glass of water. She wasn't going to be eaten by a rouge squirrel. She wasn't going to disappear and only visit me in my dreams. She was actually....here.
Ali Ve.
Alive.
I woke up this morning, thinking about how we grow. How we change.
I am not the mother I was 24 years ago when my first son was born. Time and circumstance have altered all that I was at that tender young age. I am a different mother. An older mother. I am no better, though I am more experienced, and am certainly not worse, even if I am more aware of the realities life can deal out. I have changed. And grown.
This blog is changing and growing along with me. I am not sure where it is going...yet. But, today, I knew that it was growing. That there were new things to talk about.
Everything that I AM is colored by my loss. Everything I know has been shaped by my journey.
I am excited to share my reflections with you.
Let's grow together.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Peace....
I remember being a kid.
Even in my broken, backward home, I remember childhood. I remember running around train tracks, and in empty almost built homes in the desert. I remember Saturday morning cartoons. I remember the bully named Jennifer who seemed to delight in personal torture of me, for what reason, I will never know.
But, mostly, I remember being a kid.
With innocent pictures in my head.
And silly jokes that consisted of "Knock Knock" and "Why did the chicken cross the road?"
And sitting in trees writing poems....about trees.
On Monday, my son walked upstairs with his baby sister on his hip. "Someone just bombed the Boston Marathon." he said, trying to look like it was no big deal. I could see the pain in his eyes. "A little boy was killed. Lot's of people were blown up."
I put my head in my hands. And then, looked up at him. "Are you sure?"
He rolled his eyes, and said, "Yup. I'm sure."
This morning, that same son came upstairs with his little sisters hand clutched tightly in his as she skipped around his feet. His I-pod was in his other hand. He gulped, "Someone tried to send poison to president Obama and some other people." He looked down at his I-pod, shuffling through his music. Trying not to make eye contact with me. Then, he looked up. "What the hell is wrong with people?" he said, his voice quivering. "Why is this shit happening?"
I overlooked the colorful language. "People are angry from the inside out. Lashing out is their way of showing their pain. It's a horrible way to show pain, honey."
"Well, how can we make things safer?" He scooped up his little sister and snuggled her softly. She clung to him in loving adoration.
"We can make sure we know peace in our home. We can make sure we share peace with our neighbors. We can make sure we express peace to the world. We can actively work for peace. We can vote for peaceful policy. Every day. Every single day. And that is all we can do. It's all we have left."
"What if it doesn't work?"
"It might not. But, we have to keep trying baby. We just have to keep trying. An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind."
"A tooth for a tooth makes everyone need to eat blended hamburgers..."
"Yes. And that's disgusting."
He smiled softly and sighed.
I remember being a child, with child thoughts. My children haven't gotten to experience that. They are growing up in a world where towers fall, and people are dieing in movie theaters, school rooms, and in celebratory races. They are growing up knowing that crazy people have access to weaponry that NO ONE should have. They are growing up knowing that their dad works with people struggling with poverty and mental illness and anger management issues...and that he spends every waking moment trying to help. And help.
They are living in a world that needs peace.
So that the children can be children.
So that we may all know what it's like to open up the news, and see.....that the day is just beautiful, and a baby was born, and someone helped a neighbor, and the world was safe.
What will you do today, to make sure it is so?
Even in my broken, backward home, I remember childhood. I remember running around train tracks, and in empty almost built homes in the desert. I remember Saturday morning cartoons. I remember the bully named Jennifer who seemed to delight in personal torture of me, for what reason, I will never know.
But, mostly, I remember being a kid.
With innocent pictures in my head.
And silly jokes that consisted of "Knock Knock" and "Why did the chicken cross the road?"
And sitting in trees writing poems....about trees.
On Monday, my son walked upstairs with his baby sister on his hip. "Someone just bombed the Boston Marathon." he said, trying to look like it was no big deal. I could see the pain in his eyes. "A little boy was killed. Lot's of people were blown up."
I put my head in my hands. And then, looked up at him. "Are you sure?"
He rolled his eyes, and said, "Yup. I'm sure."
This morning, that same son came upstairs with his little sisters hand clutched tightly in his as she skipped around his feet. His I-pod was in his other hand. He gulped, "Someone tried to send poison to president Obama and some other people." He looked down at his I-pod, shuffling through his music. Trying not to make eye contact with me. Then, he looked up. "What the hell is wrong with people?" he said, his voice quivering. "Why is this shit happening?"
I overlooked the colorful language. "People are angry from the inside out. Lashing out is their way of showing their pain. It's a horrible way to show pain, honey."
"Well, how can we make things safer?" He scooped up his little sister and snuggled her softly. She clung to him in loving adoration.
"We can make sure we know peace in our home. We can make sure we share peace with our neighbors. We can make sure we express peace to the world. We can actively work for peace. We can vote for peaceful policy. Every day. Every single day. And that is all we can do. It's all we have left."
"What if it doesn't work?"
"It might not. But, we have to keep trying baby. We just have to keep trying. An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind."
"A tooth for a tooth makes everyone need to eat blended hamburgers..."
"Yes. And that's disgusting."
He smiled softly and sighed.
I remember being a child, with child thoughts. My children haven't gotten to experience that. They are growing up in a world where towers fall, and people are dieing in movie theaters, school rooms, and in celebratory races. They are growing up knowing that crazy people have access to weaponry that NO ONE should have. They are growing up knowing that their dad works with people struggling with poverty and mental illness and anger management issues...and that he spends every waking moment trying to help. And help.
They are living in a world that needs peace.
So that the children can be children.
So that we may all know what it's like to open up the news, and see.....that the day is just beautiful, and a baby was born, and someone helped a neighbor, and the world was safe.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
No More Excuses!
It won't leave my mind.
I know what it's like to lose a child. I know what it's like to see blood and the wreckage of a cruel accident on a son...and wonder if he will live, and know that if he does, he will never be the same, and as you watch his lifeless face with the tube shoved down his throat... wonder if he's already dead.
I know what it is like to hold a lifeless baby in your arms.
I know what it's like to lose a child. I know what it's like to see blood and the wreckage of a cruel accident on a son...and wonder if he will live, and know that if he does, he will never be the same, and as you watch his lifeless face with the tube shoved down his throat... wonder if he's already dead.
I know what it is like to hold a lifeless baby in your arms.
Wishing that you could do ANYTHING to bring them back. Anything. You beg
the universe. You scream and sob and tantrum under the night sky.
WHY???? You ask. WHY M Y BABY???? WHY??!!!???
I know what that feels like.
So as I sit here, a baby girl cozy in my arms with warm milk dribbling down her chin, trying to get my work done at home, as a Medical Biller and Office Manager for my husbands mental health practice, I feel the lump in my throat. I feel the tears burning behind my eyes. I know my work will have to wait.
I know what it feels like to lose a child. My babies.
I know what it feels like to have a broken heart.
I know what it feels like to have Christmas approach...when all you want, is to have them back the way they were. The way they SHOULD have been.
I know what it feels like to have regrets. To wish you had done something different. Anything.
But you can't.
To the parent's who are hopelessly fingering the gifts they had already bought for the children they loved....wetting the paper with tears...knowing they will never see the sparkle of their daughter's eyes again. Or their son's toothless grin. Knowing last year was the last Christmas of wholeness and smiles and unfettered joy---I know what it feels like. It SUCKS.
I am so sorry for your horrific, unquestionably wrong losses. I am so devastated to not be able to say "Hey guys...I have a get out of jail free card, and you can have it!". I am heartbroken that there is no rewind button. No way to do it over. No way to fix it.
No way to stop the tears.
Ty and I work with people who are dealing with their mental health. They are fighting for their lives...and they are strong. They are addressing their crisis, their anger, their grief and pain and trauma. They are WORKING on themselves. By and large, they are in poverty...and as such, many of them qualify for the meager allowance of services our country concedes is "acceptable." These people are owning their mental health and doing a FANTASTIC job improving their realities. It is not these people I worry about. It is the people not getting help. The people who are uninsured. Or Under-insured. Or insured, and in denial that they need support. After all..."It's looks good from my backyard!" Yeah....funny. Funny how it's the people who look so normal who want to believe that mental health is an optional issue reserved for "those other people..." or "those other families..." They live the same denial as the "functional alcoholic." I call them the "working mentally ill."
I have billed insurance companies who send back our bills with the explanation that once their client, who pays an ample sum to HAVE insurance, pays a total of $5000.00 in medical bills, they will begin to pay 20% of their mental health care bills. We put clients like that on a waiting list for funding with our Robin Hood Fund, hoping that we can care for them. Ty often sets up appointments anyway...trying to work out a payment plan, and knowing he might never get paid. In many ways, it's not much different than actually billing an insurance company, because they seem to have lots of loopholes to prevent payment, or reduce it to laughable levels. We've discovered that working in mental health is much akin to volunteer work. Insurance companies don't want to pay, our government doesn't want to pay and our citizens can't afford to pay, or don't want to admit that mental health is a priority until their lives start to crumble...and then, well, maybe they will pay. Maybe. But even if they pay for themselves, they don't want a neighbor to get a free ride....so they vote against mental health funding. In essence...they vote for another tragedy to occur, and then they wonder why something so horrible as mass murder, keeps happening in this country.
Mental health matters. It matters as much as getting good food and shelter. It matters as much as education, and probably more than the required vaccinations we make our kids get in order to go to school.
I work in mental health. It is the life-thread of my education. I understand personally what it takes to climb out of the horror of abuse and loss and horrific tragedy. There are 28 families out there who are weeping RIGHT NOW over the loss of their loved ones. The shock and horror is cruelly vibrating through their veins. Millions of children and parents are now worried that schools around the nations may not be safe places to be.
They are afraid.
I am afraid.
And I'm sorry. I'm sorry that we, as a nation, didn't protect our children better. I'm sorry that we, as a nation, didn't take mental health seriously. I'm sorry that we, as a nation, failed to do SOMETHING different. Anything.
Had we done something after ANY of the shootings that have shocked us all over the past several years....this shooting might not have occurred. Had we taken gun control seriously, like so many other 1st world nations, this horrific slaughter might not have occurred. Had we made efforts to improve funding for mental health...this particular mass murder of children might not have occurred.
Let's not wait for a next time. Let's not just make a memorial and walk past it in helpless denial. Let's not just cry and move ahead pretending there is nothing we can do about it. Make your voice heard.
Now is the time.
NOW.
I know what that feels like.
So as I sit here, a baby girl cozy in my arms with warm milk dribbling down her chin, trying to get my work done at home, as a Medical Biller and Office Manager for my husbands mental health practice, I feel the lump in my throat. I feel the tears burning behind my eyes. I know my work will have to wait.
I know what it feels like to lose a child. My babies.
I know what it feels like to have a broken heart.
I know what it feels like to have Christmas approach...when all you want, is to have them back the way they were. The way they SHOULD have been.
I know what it feels like to have regrets. To wish you had done something different. Anything.
But you can't.
To the parent's who are hopelessly fingering the gifts they had already bought for the children they loved....wetting the paper with tears...knowing they will never see the sparkle of their daughter's eyes again. Or their son's toothless grin. Knowing last year was the last Christmas of wholeness and smiles and unfettered joy---I know what it feels like. It SUCKS.
I am so sorry for your horrific, unquestionably wrong losses. I am so devastated to not be able to say "Hey guys...I have a get out of jail free card, and you can have it!". I am heartbroken that there is no rewind button. No way to do it over. No way to fix it.
No way to stop the tears.
Ty and I work with people who are dealing with their mental health. They are fighting for their lives...and they are strong. They are addressing their crisis, their anger, their grief and pain and trauma. They are WORKING on themselves. By and large, they are in poverty...and as such, many of them qualify for the meager allowance of services our country concedes is "acceptable." These people are owning their mental health and doing a FANTASTIC job improving their realities. It is not these people I worry about. It is the people not getting help. The people who are uninsured. Or Under-insured. Or insured, and in denial that they need support. After all..."It's looks good from my backyard!" Yeah....funny. Funny how it's the people who look so normal who want to believe that mental health is an optional issue reserved for "those other people..." or "those other families..." They live the same denial as the "functional alcoholic." I call them the "working mentally ill."
I have billed insurance companies who send back our bills with the explanation that once their client, who pays an ample sum to HAVE insurance, pays a total of $5000.00 in medical bills, they will begin to pay 20% of their mental health care bills. We put clients like that on a waiting list for funding with our Robin Hood Fund, hoping that we can care for them. Ty often sets up appointments anyway...trying to work out a payment plan, and knowing he might never get paid. In many ways, it's not much different than actually billing an insurance company, because they seem to have lots of loopholes to prevent payment, or reduce it to laughable levels. We've discovered that working in mental health is much akin to volunteer work. Insurance companies don't want to pay, our government doesn't want to pay and our citizens can't afford to pay, or don't want to admit that mental health is a priority until their lives start to crumble...and then, well, maybe they will pay. Maybe. But even if they pay for themselves, they don't want a neighbor to get a free ride....so they vote against mental health funding. In essence...they vote for another tragedy to occur, and then they wonder why something so horrible as mass murder, keeps happening in this country.
Mental health matters. It matters as much as getting good food and shelter. It matters as much as education, and probably more than the required vaccinations we make our kids get in order to go to school.
I work in mental health. It is the life-thread of my education. I understand personally what it takes to climb out of the horror of abuse and loss and horrific tragedy. There are 28 families out there who are weeping RIGHT NOW over the loss of their loved ones. The shock and horror is cruelly vibrating through their veins. Millions of children and parents are now worried that schools around the nations may not be safe places to be.
They are afraid.
I am afraid.
And I'm sorry. I'm sorry that we, as a nation, didn't protect our children better. I'm sorry that we, as a nation, didn't take mental health seriously. I'm sorry that we, as a nation, failed to do SOMETHING different. Anything.
Had we done something after ANY of the shootings that have shocked us all over the past several years....this shooting might not have occurred. Had we taken gun control seriously, like so many other 1st world nations, this horrific slaughter might not have occurred. Had we made efforts to improve funding for mental health...this particular mass murder of children might not have occurred.
Let's not wait for a next time. Let's not just make a memorial and walk past it in helpless denial. Let's not just cry and move ahead pretending there is nothing we can do about it. Make your voice heard.
Now is the time.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Her birthday came and went...
In no way was it unnoticed. There was a six layer rainbow cake...a giant sun balloon...a handmade doll with rainbow hair....laughter...smiles....love.
She loves everything, you know? When she wants to show she loves...she places her cheek against whatever, whoever, it is. She wiggles to music. She squeals with joy. She places her little hands in ours and happily marches in whatever direction pulls at her fancy.
When I hold her, I breathe in her smell...and hold it in my memory, begging that it will never be forgotten.
Because I know what loss feels like.
Every single day.
Every single night.
I hear her quiet breath...and I will it to continue forever.
I see her shining eyes...and I beg that they will never fade.
I see her loving smile...and I pray that her love will not be abused. Stolen.
I ask for protection. Life. Joy.
For her.
For me.
For all of us.
She loves everything, you know? When she wants to show she loves...she places her cheek against whatever, whoever, it is. She wiggles to music. She squeals with joy. She places her little hands in ours and happily marches in whatever direction pulls at her fancy.
When I hold her, I breathe in her smell...and hold it in my memory, begging that it will never be forgotten.
Because I know what loss feels like.
Every single day.
Every single night.
I hear her quiet breath...and I will it to continue forever.
I see her shining eyes...and I beg that they will never fade.
I see her loving smile...and I pray that her love will not be abused. Stolen.
I ask for protection. Life. Joy.
For her.
For me.
For all of us.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Loss.
Loss. It's something we all encounter at one, or more, time(s) in our lives. All different types of loss. All different. All the same. All different. All the same.
On the mild end of the coin, it could be an earring you loved. A Frisbee. A cup that belonged to a treasured relative could break.
Then...you get to the area of loss where love was involved. You lose a friend. A boy or girl friend. Not because they died...but because the love died. Or faded. Maybe you lose a pet. Maybe it was a pet you kinda liked...or loved with all your being. Maybe you lose a sibling. A best friend. A partner. A parent.
A child. Several children.
Maybe, the loss you are experiencing isn't even related to you...but is about someone else suffering a loss you have experienced. And the pain of their reality becomes your own.
If you are a therapist, perhaps the loss you feel is from watching all the loss of all your clients. Experiencing their tears as your own.
It can be crushing.
disabling.
As human beings, I believe we were meant to live tribally. We were meant to experience support. Group compassion. The loss of a precious member of the tribe, mourned by ALL. Together. All the tears of the loss...shared.
Instead...we are tribe-less. We must cry ALL the tears of the loss, whatever it is,....alone.
Our culture tells us to stand strong. Buck up. Get a Grip. Be positive. Look on the bright side.
Ignore our pain.
Ignore the pain of others.
Walk on. Away.
Quickly.
There is no time to grieve.
And no one wants to admit they are grieving as well.
"Be strong!"
"Be positive!"
"Visualize something happy!"
"Forget...."
"Please, please...forget. So that I can forget too."
And yet....
the whisper that remembers never leaves. ever.
We remember the precious pet. The one that never left your side. We remember the spouse who, in the dark, kissed like no other. We remember the brother...who teased and tickled. We remember the mother, whose sweet smell still wafts in the bathroom. We remember the hopes and dreams for the child that never was. Or was...but left too soon. Much, much too soon.
They will look at you with a smile and ask, "How are you?" and a secret place behind their eyes begs you not to really tell them how you are. How you really ARE.
"I've been better..." is a response they are not looking for. "Fine"...is a response that is a lie.
So you simply smile, locking the gates of tear flooded reality.
Loss. It touches us all.
Speak about it. Share it. Own it.
Loss. We need to be reminded that we are not alone....when we speak of it, we offer support to everyone who has ever lost anything...and that IS everyone.
Speak of it. Cry about it. Laugh in spite of it.
Yes. laugh through the tears.
Because....they would want it that way.
You know who "they" are.
Yes. They would want it that way.
On the mild end of the coin, it could be an earring you loved. A Frisbee. A cup that belonged to a treasured relative could break.
Then...you get to the area of loss where love was involved. You lose a friend. A boy or girl friend. Not because they died...but because the love died. Or faded. Maybe you lose a pet. Maybe it was a pet you kinda liked...or loved with all your being. Maybe you lose a sibling. A best friend. A partner. A parent.
A child. Several children.
Maybe, the loss you are experiencing isn't even related to you...but is about someone else suffering a loss you have experienced. And the pain of their reality becomes your own.
If you are a therapist, perhaps the loss you feel is from watching all the loss of all your clients. Experiencing their tears as your own.
It can be crushing.
disabling.
As human beings, I believe we were meant to live tribally. We were meant to experience support. Group compassion. The loss of a precious member of the tribe, mourned by ALL. Together. All the tears of the loss...shared.
Instead...we are tribe-less. We must cry ALL the tears of the loss, whatever it is,....alone.
Our culture tells us to stand strong. Buck up. Get a Grip. Be positive. Look on the bright side.
Ignore our pain.
Ignore the pain of others.
Walk on. Away.
Quickly.
There is no time to grieve.
And no one wants to admit they are grieving as well.
"Be strong!"
"Be positive!"
"Visualize something happy!"
"Forget...."
"Please, please...forget. So that I can forget too."
And yet....
the whisper that remembers never leaves. ever.
We remember the precious pet. The one that never left your side. We remember the spouse who, in the dark, kissed like no other. We remember the brother...who teased and tickled. We remember the mother, whose sweet smell still wafts in the bathroom. We remember the hopes and dreams for the child that never was. Or was...but left too soon. Much, much too soon.
They will look at you with a smile and ask, "How are you?" and a secret place behind their eyes begs you not to really tell them how you are. How you really ARE.
"I've been better..." is a response they are not looking for. "Fine"...is a response that is a lie.
So you simply smile, locking the gates of tear flooded reality.
Loss. It touches us all.
Speak about it. Share it. Own it.
Loss. We need to be reminded that we are not alone....when we speak of it, we offer support to everyone who has ever lost anything...and that IS everyone.
Speak of it. Cry about it. Laugh in spite of it.
Yes. laugh through the tears.
Because....they would want it that way.
You know who "they" are.
Yes. They would want it that way.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Wanting to give back...
You know...there are those people in our lives who always go out of their way to help others. We all have them. Sometimes, it's not just one person...but many who do little, and big, things to make the day brighter. I've been thinking about this a lot lately.
Cause I'm married to a person like that.
If you've been reading for the past three years...you know all about him. He's that guy.
The guy who held my hand through oceans of tears. Who walked with me for hours as I tried to find my breath. Who cheered me on as I told you my story. Our story.
The father I always wished I had...my children have.
This is a man who not only spends his nights and weekends loving his family, but who spends his working hours nurturing and protecting the hearts of others who have known the bottom of the barrel. He typically refers to his clients as his friends. When I asked him why he does that...he replied "Because I love those people. They aren't just clients. They ARE my friends."
That's called being a therapist who cares. Not just a little. These people matter to him, like his own children...like brothers and sisters. Mothers and fathers. And he gives his soul to all of them. For that small hour...their problems are the only problems in the world to him. And his clients know that. His friends know that.
What most of them don't know is that I hear him crying in the wee hours of the morning. Crying and praying. Begging. He begs that the babies of the world who are being raped will be loved. He begs that women who are beaten by their partners will be loved. Will find a safe place to go. He pleads that men, who are afraid of their own desires, will be brave enough to speak out instead of trying to kill themselves...leaving the people who love them behind. He sobs...over his own grief. The grief that he tries to muffle, because he doesn't think I can handle the burden.
I've noticed that he seems sunnier when we have longer days. I've noticed that the rays of sunshine seem to lift his pain a little. His eyes seem less burdened. But...summer is short in Montana. And winter is long. As the days already grow shorter, I've felt my chest tighten a bit as I know the glimmer that is surfacing in his eyes again. It's loss. Loss of the sunshine. Loss of the ability to feel it on his face. Loss of the giving nature he finds in the long days of summer. Loss of warmth. Of light.
So...this morning...I heard him crying again. And I knew it was because of a particular pattern. Loss. He's going into his own practice. Which is exciting to both of us. Exciting. And scary. It will be a good thing. . .the best thing for him...and the friends who walk through his door each day. But...I'd like to give back to him in a way that will show him that the world cares as much about him as he cares about others. I'd like to show him that the support I have found on line is there for him as well. I'd like to give him the light he needs to feel joy on his face. I'd like to give him a place of light in our tiny home. A sunroom for Ty. Where he can sit in the morning...even in the winter...and feel warmth on his face, surrounded by greenery and tropical plants. I'd like to give a portion of what he gives others...to his daily life. I'd like to ease the pain of loss a little with a gift of abundance.
We can do it together. You held my hand through our loss. I know you can hold Ty's as well. Please click the Go fund me link on the side of this page, or visit here ---->http://email.gofundme.com/wf/click?upn=F0PHeOF0OgCLjus7brE3cffZYyhSi9ZYkIzgc8Xc3wox0UcOkhC101SUFWAoEQ7ciJC4VuCrqABFDOKYikUBu5YEDmgH2-2FtIJM5B-2Bep3bmtCDvlr5mRf7FsBY-2BgySfagqnCF0MW7YFErH0hDaGctJQ-3D-3D_9gT4VO-2FU0du27biN-2F-2BlZKNbMEbQ26Z2-2BWr9gFGfgb9SVy-2FcTSOHHwo5UQ8zKYWSzjySWT-2BdvUZfgKMpNRpj1Ebgp0bi3chQbPR7lym4AyAzao-2Bn3ygKWm8sp240yqQQDENZ1x-2FScBpHUGFNoCIUvKjQgOmF1phXlVe8eUs2wJHGpp5jqCqgBg5slamcYWuhhdKI40uOgvFEPlXzxVBgmauXtL746IqHP-2BFeIoApzEOs-3D and help me give back to Ty. There are so few good men in the world. Ty is one of them. Let's give him the sun!
Cause I'm married to a person like that.
If you've been reading for the past three years...you know all about him. He's that guy.
The guy who held my hand through oceans of tears. Who walked with me for hours as I tried to find my breath. Who cheered me on as I told you my story. Our story.
The father I always wished I had...my children have.
This is a man who not only spends his nights and weekends loving his family, but who spends his working hours nurturing and protecting the hearts of others who have known the bottom of the barrel. He typically refers to his clients as his friends. When I asked him why he does that...he replied "Because I love those people. They aren't just clients. They ARE my friends."
That's called being a therapist who cares. Not just a little. These people matter to him, like his own children...like brothers and sisters. Mothers and fathers. And he gives his soul to all of them. For that small hour...their problems are the only problems in the world to him. And his clients know that. His friends know that.
What most of them don't know is that I hear him crying in the wee hours of the morning. Crying and praying. Begging. He begs that the babies of the world who are being raped will be loved. He begs that women who are beaten by their partners will be loved. Will find a safe place to go. He pleads that men, who are afraid of their own desires, will be brave enough to speak out instead of trying to kill themselves...leaving the people who love them behind. He sobs...over his own grief. The grief that he tries to muffle, because he doesn't think I can handle the burden.
I've noticed that he seems sunnier when we have longer days. I've noticed that the rays of sunshine seem to lift his pain a little. His eyes seem less burdened. But...summer is short in Montana. And winter is long. As the days already grow shorter, I've felt my chest tighten a bit as I know the glimmer that is surfacing in his eyes again. It's loss. Loss of the sunshine. Loss of the ability to feel it on his face. Loss of the giving nature he finds in the long days of summer. Loss of warmth. Of light.
So...this morning...I heard him crying again. And I knew it was because of a particular pattern. Loss. He's going into his own practice. Which is exciting to both of us. Exciting. And scary. It will be a good thing. . .the best thing for him...and the friends who walk through his door each day. But...I'd like to give back to him in a way that will show him that the world cares as much about him as he cares about others. I'd like to show him that the support I have found on line is there for him as well. I'd like to give him the light he needs to feel joy on his face. I'd like to give him a place of light in our tiny home. A sunroom for Ty. Where he can sit in the morning...even in the winter...and feel warmth on his face, surrounded by greenery and tropical plants. I'd like to give a portion of what he gives others...to his daily life. I'd like to ease the pain of loss a little with a gift of abundance.
We can do it together. You held my hand through our loss. I know you can hold Ty's as well. Please click the Go fund me link on the side of this page, or visit here ---->http://email.gofundme.com/wf/click?upn=F0PHeOF0OgCLjus7brE3cffZYyhSi9ZYkIzgc8Xc3wox0UcOkhC101SUFWAoEQ7ciJC4VuCrqABFDOKYikUBu5YEDmgH2-2FtIJM5B-2Bep3bmtCDvlr5mRf7FsBY-2BgySfagqnCF0MW7YFErH0hDaGctJQ-3D-3D_9gT4VO-2FU0du27biN-2F-2BlZKNbMEbQ26Z2-2BWr9gFGfgb9SVy-2FcTSOHHwo5UQ8zKYWSzjySWT-2BdvUZfgKMpNRpj1Ebgp0bi3chQbPR7lym4AyAzao-2Bn3ygKWm8sp240yqQQDENZ1x-2FScBpHUGFNoCIUvKjQgOmF1phXlVe8eUs2wJHGpp5jqCqgBg5slamcYWuhhdKI40uOgvFEPlXzxVBgmauXtL746IqHP-2BFeIoApzEOs-3D and help me give back to Ty. There are so few good men in the world. Ty is one of them. Let's give him the sun!
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
In honor of breastfeeding week...
As I sit here with my almost 11 month old rainbow baby nursing in my arms...I am acutely aware of how quickly time passes us by. This poem spoke to me today...I know it will speak to you too.
Wean Me Gently
by Cathy Cardall
I know I look so big to you,
Maybe I seem too big for the needs I have.
But no matter how big we get,
We still have needs that are important to us.
I know that our relationship is growing and changing,
But I still need you. I need your warmth and closeness,
Especially at the end of the day
When we snuggle up in bed.
Please don't get too busy for us to nurse.
I know you think I can be patient,
Or find something to take the place of a nursing;
A book, a glass of something,
But nothing can take your place when I need you.
Sometimes just cuddling with you,
Having you near me is enough.
I guess I am growing and becoming independent,
But please be there.
This bond we have is so strong and so important to me,
Please don't break it abruptly.
Wean me gently,
Because I am your mother,
And my heart is tender.
Wean Me Gently
by Cathy Cardall
I know I look so big to you,
Maybe I seem too big for the needs I have.
But no matter how big we get,
We still have needs that are important to us.
I know that our relationship is growing and changing,
But I still need you. I need your warmth and closeness,
Especially at the end of the day
When we snuggle up in bed.
Please don't get too busy for us to nurse.
I know you think I can be patient,
Or find something to take the place of a nursing;
A book, a glass of something,
But nothing can take your place when I need you.
Sometimes just cuddling with you,
Having you near me is enough.
I guess I am growing and becoming independent,
But please be there.
This bond we have is so strong and so important to me,
Please don't break it abruptly.
Wean me gently,
Because I am your mother,
And my heart is tender.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Random Acts of Wonderment...
I came into my office this evening and found a box on the computer table that my son's had failed to tell me arrived. You see, they were rather excited about a game they had ordered that arrived, and I'm sure that anything else in existence slipped their minds. Even so, I did find the box, and I was pretty curious about it, so I ripped it open while my rainbow girl grabbed happily at the tape that kept sticking to her tiny fingers.
Inside the box... I found the most beautiful thing.
It was a hand knit bunny with a rainbow dress. My Venus girl grabbed at it with a squeal of delight. She squealed and squealed as the bunny flopped joyfully in her hands. It was love at first sight! I dug into the box and found a tiny silver key chain...with the names "Simon and Alexander" printed on the back of an Angel disk.
The tears trailed into my smiling mouth as I read a beautiful note from a dear friend who I haven't seen in years.
I watched my rainbow baby clutch at her bunny as her big brothers whooped in amazement over the idea that our friend had MADE that toy with her own skilled fingers. They declared her talent to be above and beyond anything they had ever dreamed about, and longed wistfully for the ability to make toys and clothes and jewelry like that.
I kept gulping back tears. Never in my life would I have dreamed of such a gift for my girl. It simply was too beautiful to imagine.
I am struck by the heaps of adoration that others have showered into our lives.
I am awed by the love. The compassion. The miracles.
The sparkling eyes of my little girl shine with delight, and they remind me of eyes that never looked into mine. Simon and Alexander...I would have loved to see your eyes sparkle with joy. There are people in this world who understand that. There are people who know how deeply I yearn for them.
Every day.
I wanted to share with my readers around the world this photo of my rainbow girl with her new beloved bunny... I wanted to tell you all that you are not alone. There is a sparkle in the universe for us. It shines with golden light and love.
Sometimes, it is something we can touch, like a bunny made by a friend. Sometimes...it is a feeling.
A beautiful, wonderful feeling.
Inside the box... I found the most beautiful thing.
It was a hand knit bunny with a rainbow dress. My Venus girl grabbed at it with a squeal of delight. She squealed and squealed as the bunny flopped joyfully in her hands. It was love at first sight! I dug into the box and found a tiny silver key chain...with the names "Simon and Alexander" printed on the back of an Angel disk.
The tears trailed into my smiling mouth as I read a beautiful note from a dear friend who I haven't seen in years.
I watched my rainbow baby clutch at her bunny as her big brothers whooped in amazement over the idea that our friend had MADE that toy with her own skilled fingers. They declared her talent to be above and beyond anything they had ever dreamed about, and longed wistfully for the ability to make toys and clothes and jewelry like that.
I kept gulping back tears. Never in my life would I have dreamed of such a gift for my girl. It simply was too beautiful to imagine.
I am struck by the heaps of adoration that others have showered into our lives.
I am awed by the love. The compassion. The miracles.
The sparkling eyes of my little girl shine with delight, and they remind me of eyes that never looked into mine. Simon and Alexander...I would have loved to see your eyes sparkle with joy. There are people in this world who understand that. There are people who know how deeply I yearn for them.
Every day.
I wanted to share with my readers around the world this photo of my rainbow girl with her new beloved bunny... I wanted to tell you all that you are not alone. There is a sparkle in the universe for us. It shines with golden light and love.
Sometimes, it is something we can touch, like a bunny made by a friend. Sometimes...it is a feeling.
A beautiful, wonderful feeling.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Shards of Glass
When my father was a boy, he boiled a glass in a pan and it exploded. You can still feel shards of glass under the skin. Shards the doctors were never able to remove.
You'd never know just from looking at it. But, if you feel carefully...they are there.
This weekend, I took a walk with my rainbow girly and husband...and of course, my amazing sheep dog. The boys all opted to stay home with a movie, and we agreed because our teen hasn't been home much lately, being a social butterfly and all... So, it was a nice chance for them to hang together as brothers. It was also a nice chance to just talk, without interruption. In all honesty, we typically don't mind "interuption"...but there are moments when it's nice to talk without having to remember what you said moments ago because someone needs toilet paper, and someone else needs a snack and someone else wonders when they can buy that extra special video game, and someone else wonders if I can pay them for cleaning the porch (yes.) and someone else wonders if someone ELSE can do the dishes (no.)
When we walk with our rainbow girly, sometimes we pass other people. They smile at her and nod knowingly at us "Oh, you just wait till she's older! They are sweet NOW, but..."
They don't know that I've been a practicing mother for 22 years. They don't know that I have five living children. They don't know that my twins are dead and that I'd give ANYTHING to have them give me hell in the future. At least they would BE.
It's the shards of glass in MY heart...loss. Razor sharp and uncomfortable to the touch. Sealed under a scar---forever.
The part of me that longed for "me time". The part of me that groaned about endless need. The part of me that wistfully remembered dreams from my youth---before I became a parent. A mother. That part of me...seems insignificant compared to the part of me that yearns to be whole again.
I yearn for the days before the shards of glass. Before I knew that my children could die. Before I knew that I could--and would--find myself sobbing in a super market. Or any market for that matter. The days wherein I felt complete, and whole, and...strong.
I walk by smiling people and I wonder what their shards of glass are.
Or if they have any.
And if they don't...Why?
How??
As they walk by me, with my beautiful little girl smiling from my arms, do they think I've got it all? Do they feel that I must not know suffering?
Do we look like the perfect family of three plus doggie dear?
It's something to contemplate...that others have shards of glass in their souls too. That we can't see what those shards are from. That we don't even know they are there. And probably never will.
I walk by smiling people and I smile back at them.
They don't need to know.
You'd never know just from looking at it. But, if you feel carefully...they are there.
This weekend, I took a walk with my rainbow girly and husband...and of course, my amazing sheep dog. The boys all opted to stay home with a movie, and we agreed because our teen hasn't been home much lately, being a social butterfly and all... So, it was a nice chance for them to hang together as brothers. It was also a nice chance to just talk, without interruption. In all honesty, we typically don't mind "interuption"...but there are moments when it's nice to talk without having to remember what you said moments ago because someone needs toilet paper, and someone else needs a snack and someone else wonders when they can buy that extra special video game, and someone else wonders if I can pay them for cleaning the porch (yes.) and someone else wonders if someone ELSE can do the dishes (no.)
When we walk with our rainbow girly, sometimes we pass other people. They smile at her and nod knowingly at us "Oh, you just wait till she's older! They are sweet NOW, but..."
They don't know that I've been a practicing mother for 22 years. They don't know that I have five living children. They don't know that my twins are dead and that I'd give ANYTHING to have them give me hell in the future. At least they would BE.
It's the shards of glass in MY heart...loss. Razor sharp and uncomfortable to the touch. Sealed under a scar---forever.
The part of me that longed for "me time". The part of me that groaned about endless need. The part of me that wistfully remembered dreams from my youth---before I became a parent. A mother. That part of me...seems insignificant compared to the part of me that yearns to be whole again.
I yearn for the days before the shards of glass. Before I knew that my children could die. Before I knew that I could--and would--find myself sobbing in a super market. Or any market for that matter. The days wherein I felt complete, and whole, and...strong.
I walk by smiling people and I wonder what their shards of glass are.
Or if they have any.
And if they don't...Why?
How??
As they walk by me, with my beautiful little girl smiling from my arms, do they think I've got it all? Do they feel that I must not know suffering?
Do we look like the perfect family of three plus doggie dear?
It's something to contemplate...that others have shards of glass in their souls too. That we can't see what those shards are from. That we don't even know they are there. And probably never will.
I walk by smiling people and I smile back at them.
They don't need to know.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Past...Present...Future.
It's really been three years. Three long years since losing Simon and Alexander that have gone by with the speed of a freight train running over my heart. Only faster. And more tortuous.
Three years in the life of a woman. When I look at the big scale of my life...three years are a drop in the bucket. I should be grateful.
IS that little baby girl really me???
That's what I'm told. I'm told that that grinning little girl with the big brown eyes is me. Or rather...she was me.
See, that little girl with the broad smile and eyes brimming with excitement hasn't been hurt yet. She hasn't been damaged by life yet. Her parents love her and feel that she is a delight. She hasn't been ignored, or belitted, or neglected, or shamed. Yet.
Life hasn't dealt her any abuses. Yet.
Nor any cruelties. Yet.
She still drinks her mothers breast milk, designed especially for her, and when she cries, her mama picks her up.
No one has molested her. No one has berated her. No one has decided that she is too needy or too talkative or too...bothersome.
No one has decided that her emotions are unwanted.
She has never known loss...nor does she know that she will walk hand in hand with it. She has NO IDEA what is in her future. No idea of what is coming her way.
She is just loved. Adored even.
I was a rainbow baby.
It's funny, to look at the picture now, because...I have a rainbow baby too.
And, just like the me in that picture...she is adored.
She has never known pain. Neglect. Abuse.
No one has ever given her anything but tenderness and love.
She has been treasured, encouraged, and celebrated.
She is surrounded by a house of adoring brothers, a doting father, and an especially tender mama.
This is my mother and me.
Yeah...we are sideways...but, that's kind of appropriate. Because see, my world would soon be turned upside down. My mother would soon get the son she always craved, and I'd be put on the back burner...suddenly too demanding. Suddenly too...me. Rainbow baby or not....It's never been the same. I was too much work. Too sensitive. Too talkative. Too...sexy? Yeah. I was apparently too sexy by the time I could walk. Weird.
Not only was I too sexy, which is why it was my fault that I was violated while she frequented bars with random jerks...but I was also too thinky. See, I thought too much about...everything. We didn't really see eye to eye, my mother and me. Not because I didn't want to...but because she didn't want to face her own demons. She didn't want to look at her own pain...so mine was a nuisance to her. When my pain didn't just "go away"...I became the object of disdain. It was my problem. Not hers.
This is my rainbow girl and her mama...me. The me I am NOW.
We are right side up.
If i have ANYTHING to say about...that is the way she and I will stay.
In love.
In touch.
In eternity.
I was a rainbow baby. A discarded rainbow baby. How bizarre to know how deeply I treasure my own girl when I am an un-treasured daughter. And yet...I know how to be a good mama, cause I didn't have one! I searched high and low to discover who I am NOW. I was a rainbow baby.
Somehow that speaks to me. A rainbow baby giving birth to a rainbow baby...
I look at the pictures of the me that used to be...and I know that the twinkle in my eyes holds an understanding of joy. That twinkle has re-appeared...and as I look at my daughter, it sparkles in a wonderment that stands in astonishment as I contemplate my past in view of my present...and my future.
I know that the little girl that I was had no idea how terribly sad life could be...and life was unbearably cruel to her.
And yet, that sparkle...it remained.
That's how I know that photo is of me. I still have that sparkle.
When I look at my baby girl and her big brothers...I see that I passed it on.
I will take care to ensure their sparkles are cherished. I know what it feels like to have that sparkle ignored.
That is what tenacity gives us...even though the walls of our lives come crumbling down... we discover our innate right to love and joy in spite of hardship and our sparkle shines on.
And on.
And on.
And...I am very. very. very grateful for that...
Three years in the life of a woman. When I look at the big scale of my life...three years are a drop in the bucket. I should be grateful.
That's what I'm told. I'm told that that grinning little girl with the big brown eyes is me. Or rather...she was me.
See, that little girl with the broad smile and eyes brimming with excitement hasn't been hurt yet. She hasn't been damaged by life yet. Her parents love her and feel that she is a delight. She hasn't been ignored, or belitted, or neglected, or shamed. Yet.
Life hasn't dealt her any abuses. Yet.
Nor any cruelties. Yet.
She still drinks her mothers breast milk, designed especially for her, and when she cries, her mama picks her up.
No one has molested her. No one has berated her. No one has decided that she is too needy or too talkative or too...bothersome.
No one has decided that her emotions are unwanted.
She has never known loss...nor does she know that she will walk hand in hand with it. She has NO IDEA what is in her future. No idea of what is coming her way.
She is just loved. Adored even.
I was a rainbow baby.
It's funny, to look at the picture now, because...I have a rainbow baby too.
She has never known pain. Neglect. Abuse.
No one has ever given her anything but tenderness and love.
She has been treasured, encouraged, and celebrated.
She is surrounded by a house of adoring brothers, a doting father, and an especially tender mama.
This is my mother and me.
Yeah...we are sideways...but, that's kind of appropriate. Because see, my world would soon be turned upside down. My mother would soon get the son she always craved, and I'd be put on the back burner...suddenly too demanding. Suddenly too...me. Rainbow baby or not....It's never been the same. I was too much work. Too sensitive. Too talkative. Too...sexy? Yeah. I was apparently too sexy by the time I could walk. Weird.
Not only was I too sexy, which is why it was my fault that I was violated while she frequented bars with random jerks...but I was also too thinky. See, I thought too much about...everything. We didn't really see eye to eye, my mother and me. Not because I didn't want to...but because she didn't want to face her own demons. She didn't want to look at her own pain...so mine was a nuisance to her. When my pain didn't just "go away"...I became the object of disdain. It was my problem. Not hers.
This is my rainbow girl and her mama...me. The me I am NOW.
If i have ANYTHING to say about...that is the way she and I will stay.
In love.
In touch.
In eternity.
I was a rainbow baby. A discarded rainbow baby. How bizarre to know how deeply I treasure my own girl when I am an un-treasured daughter. And yet...I know how to be a good mama, cause I didn't have one! I searched high and low to discover who I am NOW. I was a rainbow baby.
Somehow that speaks to me. A rainbow baby giving birth to a rainbow baby...
I look at the pictures of the me that used to be...and I know that the twinkle in my eyes holds an understanding of joy. That twinkle has re-appeared...and as I look at my daughter, it sparkles in a wonderment that stands in astonishment as I contemplate my past in view of my present...and my future.
I know that the little girl that I was had no idea how terribly sad life could be...and life was unbearably cruel to her.
And yet, that sparkle...it remained.
That's how I know that photo is of me. I still have that sparkle.
When I look at my baby girl and her big brothers...I see that I passed it on.
I will take care to ensure their sparkles are cherished. I know what it feels like to have that sparkle ignored.
That is what tenacity gives us...even though the walls of our lives come crumbling down... we discover our innate right to love and joy in spite of hardship and our sparkle shines on.
And on.
And on.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Fact and Fiction
I've been writing. (What's new??)
But seriously, I really have been writing. It's almost done. My baby.
Somehow, it was brought to my attention that a story must be told. The question was, how to do it. I didn't want to expose my tender family too much. And yet...it is our story that was chiming in my ears. So, I took our reality and made it fiction.
You'll see us in it. Fictionalized. I chose to do that in order to morph things well...and in order to protect myself from raised eyebrows and dubious response.
It is our story.
And, it's almost done.
It's been three years since our loss. Simon and Alexander are waiting in the wings. Our rainbow girly is at my breast. And...the story must out.
It was meant to be.
But seriously, I really have been writing. It's almost done. My baby.
Somehow, it was brought to my attention that a story must be told. The question was, how to do it. I didn't want to expose my tender family too much. And yet...it is our story that was chiming in my ears. So, I took our reality and made it fiction.
You'll see us in it. Fictionalized. I chose to do that in order to morph things well...and in order to protect myself from raised eyebrows and dubious response.
It is our story.
And, it's almost done.
It's been three years since our loss. Simon and Alexander are waiting in the wings. Our rainbow girly is at my breast. And...the story must out.
It was meant to be.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Earth Day...
Yesterday was Earth Day.
For those of you who know my story, you know why that day is important to me. Three years have passed since we lost our twins. Three years have passed since I discovered that there really is something beautiful to be found after we die. Three years have passed.
I feel a little bit like a war veteran who has just come home. I've seen things the "normal" people around me have not seen. Felt things they haven't felt. Questioned things they never thought to question. Been through things I hope they never have to go through.
I'm a changed being. Tender. A little frayed around the edges. Bruised. Scarred. Maimed.
But I'm here.
I'm here.
Yesterday, we spent the day walking. Talking. In the seclusion of river, woods and fields, we found some laughter, shared tears, memories...
We took turns holding our rainbow girl. How healing is the presence and solid vibrancy of a rainbow baby! In moments of intensity...heart breaking longing...we would hold her close. Feel her skin. Thanking life for giving her to us. And then, blinking back tears in the knowledge that some of our fellow sisters and brothers of the loss world have not been given the opportunity to feel that comforting balm. It pains me so deeply to think that such a painful void would remain empty for so many.
In that...I know I am ever so lucky.
I don't say blessed at the moment, because that would imply that someone decided I was worthy of my girl, while others remain unworthy...and that, to put it bluntly...is solid horse-shit.
I am lucky.
So very very lucky.
I wanted to thank everyone who put Simon and Alexander in their hearts yesterday. I wanted to thank the people who called...who sent cards...flowers....gifts... I wanted to thank the people who took pictures and drew their names in the sand. Thank you. It isn't blood that defines family. It's love. It's thoughtfulness. It's holding someone's hand in support. You are the people who do that for me. You are my family.
I love you for that.
For those of you who know my story, you know why that day is important to me. Three years have passed since we lost our twins. Three years have passed since I discovered that there really is something beautiful to be found after we die. Three years have passed.
I feel a little bit like a war veteran who has just come home. I've seen things the "normal" people around me have not seen. Felt things they haven't felt. Questioned things they never thought to question. Been through things I hope they never have to go through.
I'm a changed being. Tender. A little frayed around the edges. Bruised. Scarred. Maimed.
But I'm here.
I'm here.
Yesterday, we spent the day walking. Talking. In the seclusion of river, woods and fields, we found some laughter, shared tears, memories...
We took turns holding our rainbow girl. How healing is the presence and solid vibrancy of a rainbow baby! In moments of intensity...heart breaking longing...we would hold her close. Feel her skin. Thanking life for giving her to us. And then, blinking back tears in the knowledge that some of our fellow sisters and brothers of the loss world have not been given the opportunity to feel that comforting balm. It pains me so deeply to think that such a painful void would remain empty for so many.
In that...I know I am ever so lucky.
I don't say blessed at the moment, because that would imply that someone decided I was worthy of my girl, while others remain unworthy...and that, to put it bluntly...is solid horse-shit.
I am lucky.
So very very lucky.
I wanted to thank everyone who put Simon and Alexander in their hearts yesterday. I wanted to thank the people who called...who sent cards...flowers....gifts... I wanted to thank the people who took pictures and drew their names in the sand. Thank you. It isn't blood that defines family. It's love. It's thoughtfulness. It's holding someone's hand in support. You are the people who do that for me. You are my family.
I love you for that.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Slip Sliding Away...
I've been crying a lot this month. Sobbing actually. There are lots of reasons for this...all of the reasons linked to the same events.
I'm weeping because they would have been three this month.
I'm wiping my eyes because I could have had twins.
I'm sniffling because I feel guilty for wanting something I can not have. Ever.
I'm gasping for air because it still hurts that they are gone.
I'm feeling my heart race because the agony of that pain has short circuited my body's electrical patterns. Maybe permanently.
I'm holding my face in my hands because I'm supposed to be all better, according to others, now that my lovely rainbow baby is actually HERE at my breast. And yet....I'm still crying inside.
It's not that I don't feel the soothing balm of rainbow baby loveliness. It's not that she isn't AMAZING in every way. It's not that. It's that I lost my twins. I think I thought it would stop hurting somehow. I think I thought I really wouldn't feel the pain so acutely anymore. I think I thought that after three years....
I'd maybe...forget?
Or maybe I'd...just smile at the memory of people who should have been...but didn't get to BE?
Or perhaps I'd...just....
be stronger.
But I'm not.
And that has to be okay with me.
It's April. It hit me hard today as I walked in the woods with that amazing man who, for whatever reason, still seems to love me like there is never going to be a tomorrow. Our little miss V. was on my back, gazing at the world around her in a perky little bonnet. Her big blue eyes competing with the sky for brilliance. Her sweet milky aroma bringing a smile to my lips. I held the warm, strong hand that has never left my side for 17 years. I watched my cutie pie sheepdog lope up ahead to catch the disk flying up ahead of us every few hundred feet. *my husband has a thing for folf...* And I saw them....
Purple and yellow flowers. They are here again. Because they are here every year at this time.
Purple and yellow flowers. All over the woods.
And I remembered.
I remembered dying. I remembered seeing our twins. Holding them. Talking to them. Not wanting to leave them. I remembered.
My throat closed up.
I gripped his hand.
And I said..."They would have been three years old."
He knew what I meant. We stopped and looked at each other. I saw him looking at our 7 month old daughter. Our rainbow. I saw the tears well in his eyes and took note as the muscle in his jaw set to work.
There are two people on this earth who miss two people not on this earth more than we can bear. There is a family in the mountains that remembers it is not complete.
There is a hole that isn't filled by other babies. No matter how perfect and wonderful they are.
Our rainbow girl is a new person. She isn't a replacement.
She isn't a substitute.
She is our wonderful baby girl. We adore her. She is lovely and enchanting in every way.
To think she could replace our little twins is ludicrous. She didn't replace them. She is her own person. She should have had twin brothers who were three years old. Twin brothers who would have made her smile just as her other wonderful brothers do. It could have been that way.
It could have been.
Instead, it isn't.
And that makes me weep every time I see purple and yellow flowers.
Time passes so quickly. It moves right past us. When you have lost a child, others want to have that mean that you are "all better". That you too have moved on.
That isn't how it works.
You remember.
You just try not to let others know you remember. but, not for you or your well being...for them and their preference to forget what they wish they never knew in the first place.
What a crazy world.
I'm weeping because they would have been three this month.
I'm wiping my eyes because I could have had twins.
I'm sniffling because I feel guilty for wanting something I can not have. Ever.
I'm gasping for air because it still hurts that they are gone.
I'm feeling my heart race because the agony of that pain has short circuited my body's electrical patterns. Maybe permanently.
I'm holding my face in my hands because I'm supposed to be all better, according to others, now that my lovely rainbow baby is actually HERE at my breast. And yet....I'm still crying inside.
It's not that I don't feel the soothing balm of rainbow baby loveliness. It's not that she isn't AMAZING in every way. It's not that. It's that I lost my twins. I think I thought it would stop hurting somehow. I think I thought I really wouldn't feel the pain so acutely anymore. I think I thought that after three years....
I'd maybe...forget?
Or maybe I'd...just smile at the memory of people who should have been...but didn't get to BE?
Or perhaps I'd...just....
be stronger.
But I'm not.
And that has to be okay with me.
It's April. It hit me hard today as I walked in the woods with that amazing man who, for whatever reason, still seems to love me like there is never going to be a tomorrow. Our little miss V. was on my back, gazing at the world around her in a perky little bonnet. Her big blue eyes competing with the sky for brilliance. Her sweet milky aroma bringing a smile to my lips. I held the warm, strong hand that has never left my side for 17 years. I watched my cutie pie sheepdog lope up ahead to catch the disk flying up ahead of us every few hundred feet. *my husband has a thing for folf...* And I saw them....
Purple and yellow flowers. They are here again. Because they are here every year at this time.
Purple and yellow flowers. All over the woods.
And I remembered.
I remembered dying. I remembered seeing our twins. Holding them. Talking to them. Not wanting to leave them. I remembered.
My throat closed up.
I gripped his hand.
And I said..."They would have been three years old."
He knew what I meant. We stopped and looked at each other. I saw him looking at our 7 month old daughter. Our rainbow. I saw the tears well in his eyes and took note as the muscle in his jaw set to work.
There are two people on this earth who miss two people not on this earth more than we can bear. There is a family in the mountains that remembers it is not complete.
There is a hole that isn't filled by other babies. No matter how perfect and wonderful they are.
Our rainbow girl is a new person. She isn't a replacement.
She isn't a substitute.
She is our wonderful baby girl. We adore her. She is lovely and enchanting in every way.
To think she could replace our little twins is ludicrous. She didn't replace them. She is her own person. She should have had twin brothers who were three years old. Twin brothers who would have made her smile just as her other wonderful brothers do. It could have been that way.
It could have been.
Instead, it isn't.
And that makes me weep every time I see purple and yellow flowers.
Time passes so quickly. It moves right past us. When you have lost a child, others want to have that mean that you are "all better". That you too have moved on.
That isn't how it works.
You remember.
You just try not to let others know you remember. but, not for you or your well being...for them and their preference to forget what they wish they never knew in the first place.
What a crazy world.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Fairy Dust and Race Cars...
The moments of my day have changed dramatically in the past few months. I couldn't help but to realize this as I sat, with a small girl looking attentively at my activity, paintbrush in hand. The small girl watched as I dipped the brush in a selected color and rubbed it carefully onto a designated spot. Just so. Every now and then, she would break into a joyful chattering of delight--much like the sound of a baby pterodactyl. I would stop, smile on face...beaming at the little bundle on my left leg...and then, continue painting.
What was I painting you ask??
THIS.
The idea was inspired as a reinforced box appeared in my car after my husband's office moved to a new location. The box was just perfect and my little miss's brothers zoomed her around in it for over an hour before I saw, in my mind's eye, what it really was. Her first car.
I imagine her tearing through town...a gleam in her eye.
And the most wonderful part of it all...the most magical part...is that I get to pretend. With her. Because she is here.
When you have lost a baby. Or babies as is the case with me... You know how precious that reality is. To have the option of pretending.
In the depths of loss, there is no pretending. Anything. You can't pretend your baby is here. You don't get to fill your hours juggling activities. The hours tick slowly on. Without end. You lose track of days. Months. Even years.
The painful reality is so stark, it leaves no room for imagination. For silliness.
I remember being silly. I remember being creative. I remember not knowing that I didn't know.
I found a picture of the pregnant belly that contained my twins on my cell phone yesterday. Honestly, I am pretty sure I took it at this same time of the year three years ago. It was what I looked like right before they were gone. I took that photo and sent it to my husbands phone right before I set off to teach a psychology class at the University. I remembered it...because it was the last one I took that year.
As I painted the little car for my rainbow baby girl, I thought about the fact that I never got to do anything for my twins. Maybe that's the part that hurts the most. I didn't get to mother them. I didn't get to show them how much I would have treasured them.
I held my little girl a little closer as that feeling crept over me, as it often does. That feeling that knows all too well how lucky I am to have her here. With me. In my lap.
I know how fleeting this time is. Because, even when you get to HAVE your baby in your lap, it's really only the blink of an eye before they are moving out, having their own lives. Their own babies.
I know how precious these moments are. The moments of shared smiles and silly box cars. The moments of wakeful sleep and eager nursings. The moments where you are the most important person in a child's world.
In a simple life moment, one of those moments that happens before you want it to, she will step out of her box car, and into the real world where I can not insure her safety, or her happiness.
I'll just have these pictures as a reminder of this joyful moment. The moment wherein she was my baby.
And unlike her twin brothers, she got to be here with me. Enjoying the blissful world of imagination.
She's here.
I could never forget how lucky I am in that.
What was I painting you ask??
THIS.
The idea was inspired as a reinforced box appeared in my car after my husband's office moved to a new location. The box was just perfect and my little miss's brothers zoomed her around in it for over an hour before I saw, in my mind's eye, what it really was. Her first car.
I imagine her tearing through town...a gleam in her eye.
And the most wonderful part of it all...the most magical part...is that I get to pretend. With her. Because she is here.
When you have lost a baby. Or babies as is the case with me... You know how precious that reality is. To have the option of pretending.
In the depths of loss, there is no pretending. Anything. You can't pretend your baby is here. You don't get to fill your hours juggling activities. The hours tick slowly on. Without end. You lose track of days. Months. Even years.
The painful reality is so stark, it leaves no room for imagination. For silliness.
I remember being silly. I remember being creative. I remember not knowing that I didn't know.
I found a picture of the pregnant belly that contained my twins on my cell phone yesterday. Honestly, I am pretty sure I took it at this same time of the year three years ago. It was what I looked like right before they were gone. I took that photo and sent it to my husbands phone right before I set off to teach a psychology class at the University. I remembered it...because it was the last one I took that year.
As I painted the little car for my rainbow baby girl, I thought about the fact that I never got to do anything for my twins. Maybe that's the part that hurts the most. I didn't get to mother them. I didn't get to show them how much I would have treasured them.
I held my little girl a little closer as that feeling crept over me, as it often does. That feeling that knows all too well how lucky I am to have her here. With me. In my lap.
I know how fleeting this time is. Because, even when you get to HAVE your baby in your lap, it's really only the blink of an eye before they are moving out, having their own lives. Their own babies.
I know how precious these moments are. The moments of shared smiles and silly box cars. The moments of wakeful sleep and eager nursings. The moments where you are the most important person in a child's world.
In a simple life moment, one of those moments that happens before you want it to, she will step out of her box car, and into the real world where I can not insure her safety, or her happiness.
I'll just have these pictures as a reminder of this joyful moment. The moment wherein she was my baby.
And unlike her twin brothers, she got to be here with me. Enjoying the blissful world of imagination.
She's here.
I could never forget how lucky I am in that.
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